Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (38 page)

She arched a look at him. “I am not unhappy.”

“But the real question is, are you happy?” he asked. He took another sip of scotch and cupped her jaw. “You remind me of a butterfly, my sweet. A precious, rare, and delicate butterfly. And as such, you need a gilded cage filled with elegant appointments, and with a door that is not locked.”

She stared at him.

He stared back, smiling softly, because he did like her, when a disturbing image of Randall, begging him for cash, came to mind. He stiffened, refusing to entertain it. “You are too good for this place.”

Daisy’s eyes changed. The open look vanished, replaced by caution. He already knew she often played dumb, but that she was as smart as anyone. “I am hardly too good for this place, Calder,” she said in her soft and breathy voice.

“I want to make you my mistress,” he said, setting his drink down and cupping her shoulders.

She had stiffened beneath the stunning and short but otherwise unrevealing kimono. “I beg your pardon?”

He felt her mind race. “You heard me. I will take care of you in a most spectacular way. You shall have your own apartment, furnished as you like. I shall buy you clothes and baubles. Expensive baubles.” He smiled. “We shall make an agreement, for, say, six months. When the six months is up, you may leave if you choose to do so, or I may ask you to leave, or we may renew our arrangement. But for those six months, you will be my mistress, and I will take care of you.” He smiled into her eyes. And he slid his hands under her kimono, moving them back to her bare shoulders, but opening the belted garment as he did so. He glanced at her small, perfect breasts.

But she remained stiff, even though she inhaled when he knuckled her. “But what about Rose?”

“I do not wish to make Rose my mistress, Daisy. It is you I wish to have at my beck and call. And you would be at my disposal, dear, night and day, as I choose.” He tugged the kimono and let it fall to the floor. She wore only white lace garters, white stockings, and high-heeled shoes. “You are perfection. And perfection such as yours should almost never be covered up.” He slid his hands down her long, supple back.

She said, arching a little toward him, “How can I leave Rose? She is my … sister.”

He returned, “I am exceedingly generous with my mistresses when the relationship ends. When our relationship ends, you will have such a handsome settlement that you and Rose will be able to buy your own house and retire from this life, if that is what you wish. Or perhaps you will start your own house.” He rubbed his knuckle lower, down her rib cage, then over her navel. She shivered. “Ask anyone, dear.”

“I have already heard that about you,” she said breathlessly.

His knuckle moved over her belly, approaching her pubis, which was completely shaved and bare. “You will not be sorry,” he promised. “But if I find that you are not loyal to me, I will throw you out instantly. And that includes with Rose,” he said flatly.

She stared at him thoughtfully, considering the fact that he had stopped stroking her just inches away from her sex, and given its condition, he could see that she was swelling. “I can leave after six months?” she murmured.

He smiled, for he had her. “Yes, sweet Daisy. But not a day before.”

“I must speak with Rose,” she said, smiling now, “but I do not think she will mind too much. Well, she will be upset at first, but I do think I can bring her around, and thus my answer is yes.”

He grinned at her. “And you do not wish to know how much I will give you when we part ways?”

“I trust you, Calder. You are the only man I know whom I do trust.” She did not smile now.

He thought about all the questions she had never answered. One day he would learn her secrets. He turned abruptly and sat down in a big armchair, aware of her surprise and disappointment. His gaze slid over her slender body, lingering on her long legs and the perfect juncture between them.

“But I have heard you have a mistress,” she murmured, not moving.

“Our agreement stipulates only that you be faithful to me—and I will not tolerate jealousy,” he said easily. “I am not a faithful man.”

She laughed softly. “And I am not jealous. So you will have two mistresses?”

He reached out and touched her soft, warm inner thigh with a fingertip. He trailed it upward. “I have not seen her in a week; she knows the end is near. No. I am sending her on her way, even as we speak.”

Daisy took a step closer, the easier for him to toy with her. “You seem preoccupied today, Calder. I want to take your mind off of whatever it is that is disturbing you.”

Randall’s image flashed. God, he hated the man! And the man had hated him. Most definitely. He was an idiot to think otherwise.

He pulled Daisy down so she sat on his lap, straddling it. He smiled at her, banishing all thoughts of his dead father from his mind. Holding her head, he pulled her face close and whispered, “You are going to take care of me first, and then I shall take care of you.”

She smiled.

He decided not to kiss her. He slid his finger down her perfect, stunning body, low and lower still. He dipped it into the folds of her sex, and then he began to rotate it around her clitoris, slowly, thoughtfully, expertly. As he had thought, she was already moist and quickly growing ready for him.

She inhaled. “I thought—”

“Ssh,” he said, and he laid his head back against the chair and watched her as he played with her. He watched her face and chest flush with desire. He felt her grow slick and wet beneath his hand. He had been hard before even stepping into the room. God, she was so lovely.

Daisy gasped, reaching for his trousers.

He pulled her hand away. “I want to watch you come first,” he said.

She met his gaze, her blue eyes already glazed and unfocused. “You need me, Calder,” she whispered. “Not the other way around.”

“But I enjoy watching you writhe upon my lap,” he murmured, and he slowly pushed her upper body backward, holding her legs in place. Daisy was as supple as she appeared to be, and she arched over until her head reached the floor. He bent, and began licking her sex.

She came.

Gasping at first, then crying out, and it was a genuine climax.

He had warned her to never pretend otherwise with him.

He smiled, pleased, and tasted her one more time, until she went limp in his arms, practically sliding through them to the floor. He let her down gently and stood up. “Christ,” he said, opening his trousers, staring down at her. It was, perhaps, the most erotic sight, a stunning woman sprawled naked at your feet. “Tell me what you want,” he said softly.

She looked up, panting. And her gaze settled on his huge arousal. She smiled. “You know what I want. I want that.”

He did not move. No, it was power, not eroticism, that dominated the moment. Her legs were wide. She was wet, willing, and absolutely submissive. He could do with her whatever it was that he chose. “Get up,” he said softly.

Daisy rolled over gracefully and shifted fluidly onto her knees, and with a soft moan she began rubbing her face all over his penis. Her hair became sticky, wet. Then her small tongue darted out, tasting the tip, his seed.

He wanted to grab her head and ram down her throat. He did not.

She flicked her tongue over him, around him, teasing him now the way he had her. And finally, when perspiration was streaming down his body, she sucked him into her mouth and down her throat.

Finally, he grabbed her head, clasping it.

He pumped into her.

He reached down and lifted her to her feet with one strong arm. Almost simultaneously, he moved her backward and pushed her down partially onto the bed. She lay with her hips on the very edge, both feet on the floor, her legs wide open for him. “Do as you will, Calder,” she whispered, not moving.

He studied her and smiled, removing his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. “You are magnificent, just like that,” he said.

“So are you,” she said huskily, smiling. Her gaze was on his distended shaft.

He flung his shirt on the floor and stepped out of his shoes, trousers, and underwear. He did not rush.

“Hurry,” she whispered.

“I don’t think so,” he said, and when he moved over her, it was not to penetrate her. Instead, he rubbed himself over her sex, between her legs, and then between her buttocks, until she was writhing and gasping for air. “Do you like being teased, sweet Daisy?” he murmured.

“Yes, yes … yes!”

He laughed and rubbed the swollen tip of his penis over her clitoris, very, very deliberately, watching the flush on her neck increase. Suddenly she began to cry out.

And as she started to spasm he thrust inside of her, hard, almost viciously.
This
was what he wanted.
This
was where he needed to be. And no damn ghost could take
this
away from him, now could he?

The explosion came. Stunning, fiery, intense. Fire and light. Followed by darkness and death. Hart collapsed on top of Daisy.

And when he could breathe, they were both fully on her bed, in each other’s arms. He held her, stroking her fine, silken platinum hair. Randall leered at him suddenly, as if he were actually in the room. Stiffening, Hart kissed the top of her head.

And he was disbelieving. Even the act of sex could not chase away this particular dead man.

Damn it. He had to face the truth. He was pissed.

Royally so.

Because someone had gone and killed his father, and now he would never know what the man had really felt for him.

“Calder? Are you all right?” Daisy shifted to look up at him.

The concern in her eyes was real. But she was now his, bought and paid for by him. This was what he had wanted, but in that moment, it felt tainted.

He smiled at her. “I still want you,” he said.

M
ONDAY
, F
EBRUARY 3, 1902—7:00 P.M.

“Miss Cahill, you have a caller.”

Francesca had been studying—with very little interest and even less attention. The words on the page of
Madame Bovary
kept blurring and jumbling, not making any sense. It just hurt so much.

She would never be Bragg’s wife.

She would never share his life.

They could remain friends, but that was all it would ever be.

The book slipped from her hands to the floor. Somehow, another stray tear had escaped. How long, she wondered, did it take one to recover from a broken heart?

In that moment, she did not think she would ever recover.

Francesca wiped her eyes and looked up at the housemaid who stood in the doorway of her large bedroom, a room recently painted a mauve-colored pink. She had no wish to entertain a caller now, and she glanced at the bronze Louis IV clock on the pale marble mantel above the fireplace where a fire crackled on the iron grate. Francesca started—it was already 7:00
P.M
.! She had forgotten all about Mark Anthony! Clearly he had come to fetch her.

Her heart lurched. She must dismiss her grief now, or at least pretend to. She had a case to solve. But where was Joel? He had not yet appeared, and she was afraid to go out with Anthony alone. What if Anthony was the killer? For if he was not Georgette’s brother, then who was he, and why was he so immersed in her affairs? It was still not too late to back out of the evening’s undertaking, or to call Bragg on the telephone and tell him what she was doing. And if Joel did not arrive soon, she would have to go with Anthony alone.

She stood up. She was not going to call Bragg. He would think that she was chasing him, which she was not, by God.

But more important, it would hurt too much to hear his voice now.

Fortunately, her parents were out for the evening, so it would be easy to sneak out. A throbbing began behind both temples, painful and distinct. “Thank you, Melinda. I am coming right down. Who is it?”

“It is Mr. Hart, miss,” the elderly maid said, holding up a small silver tray.

Francesca’s heart turned over and then began a series of rapid heartbeats. Hart was here? At this hour?

She did not have to lift the calling card to recognize it, but she did. “Thank you. Tell him I shall be right down.”

The maid left and Francesca stared at his card, wondering what he could possibly want. And it was a somewhat odd hour to call. In general, one received callers from noon until four or five in the afternoon. It was quite understood that after four or five, a lady was either resting for the evening’s events or preparing for them. Of course, Hart didn’t give a fig for convention.

She smiled at that thought and walked into her bathroom. She ceased smiling the moment she saw her reflection—she still looked miserable, and her eyes remained somewhat red and quite puffy from crying. She sighed. A touch of rouge on her lips and cheeks hardly helped. Francesca wiped it off, grabbed her purse so she would not have to return to get it later, and hurried downstairs.

If only this day had never happened.

But that would not change the fact that Bragg was married.

If only her heart would stop hurting her. At least then there would not be a constant reminder of her grief.

Hart was in the reception room, a room usually reserved for greeting large numbers of guests as they arrived for either a party or a ball. He was studying a landscape by a French painter, Corot. Upon hearing her pause on the threshold he turned and smiled at her. “I find Corot far too tame for my tastes,” he said in a genial manner.

Her heart fluttered a little as she looked at him. He was wearing a tuxedo; clearly he was on his way to an evening affair. Like most gentlemen, he looked his most dashing in formal wear. Tonight, Francesca imagined more than a few women would try to catch his eye and win his heart. She wondered if a woman existed who might be capable of that last feat. “Good evening, Calder. This is a surprise.”

He smiled as he crossed the room, approaching. “A pleasant one, I hope.”

“Of course it is a pleasant one,” she said.

His gaze moved over her features, slowly, but differently from the time when he had been drunk. Then, his gaze had been heavy and sensual; now, it was sharp. Francesca avoided eye contact, aware of flushing. “Have you been crying?” he asked with no preamble.